


black electric blue

by escherzo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (and discussions of lack thereof), Anal Sex, Humanity, M/M, Mostly Pwp, season 4, with a quick shoutout to s5 at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24549373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: “Tell you what,” Oliver says finally. “You can go if you like. Or you can come back to my flat with me and not have to worry about being human for a bit.”Jon stares at him, unblinking, and Oliver scratches the back of his neck. Does he just not--“I'm propositioning you. To be clear.”“Oh!Oh.Right. I, ah. Right.”Christ, he thoughtGrahamwas oblivious.
Relationships: Oliver Banks/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 24
Kudos: 280





	black electric blue

**Author's Note:**

> I am not entirely sure what happened here but more people should love Oliver, so.

“You,” Jon says.

He sits down at the table in the cafe across from Oliver, not waiting for a response, and then shifts in his chair, tucking his feet up under him and curling up as though to make himself smaller. He looks like he hasn't slept in weeks despite the six months in a coma. His hair has become an enormous mane of black and gray curls, and he brushes it out of his eyes twice before giving up and letting it half-conceal the strange green his eyes have turned.

He looks like an absolute mess. 

Oliver looks him up and down once, appraising, and finally settles on, in lieu of a hello, “I know the feeling.” 

He gestures to the tea in front of him. He'd been planning to drink it, in an idle sort of way, but god knows the scarred, huddled disaster in front of him probably needs it worse. 

“I know,” Jon says. They look at each other for a long, awkward moment, and then Jon reaches out a half-melted hand and slides the mug towards himself. “I, uh.” 

“Yeah,” Oliver says. “Look, I uh. I'm not great at people, like I mentioned, and I'm not exactly the person to give advice about _good_ ways to deal with a crisis.” 

Jon stares down into the cup and then reaches up reflexively to try and tuck his hair behind his ear again. He shifts. Squirms in place. He's making Oliver antsy just looking at him. 

“You've managed,” Jon says, not looking up.

“I had a nervous breakdown so bad Death itself claimed me,” Oliver says, dry as dust. “Drink your tea.” 

“Right. Right, I.” Jon drinks his tea. “Sorry. I suppose I'm a bit out of practice with—“ He waves an aimless hand in the air. 

“Mm,” Oliver agrees. There's a long pause. 

“I don't think I'm human,” Jon says.

“No,” Oliver says. That much he's sure about. “Welcome to the club, I guess? Not really sure why you're coming to me, instead of any of your people, but.” 

“They don't want to see me.” Jon laughs a little, no humor to it. “So here I am.”

Honestly, he's vaguely stressing Oliver out just by proximity, and he's not really equipped or in the mood to play counselor. On the other hand... well. if he ignores the patchwork of scars and the desperate need for a haircut, he's done a lot worse. And Jon's not going to be expecting him to be a normal person. 

“Tell you what,” Oliver says finally. “You can go if you like. Or you can come back to my flat with me and not have to worry about being human for a bit.”

Jon stares at him, unblinking, and Oliver scratches the back of his neck. Does he just not--

“I'm propositioning you. To be clear.”

“Oh! _Oh._ Right. I, ah. Right.” 

Christ, he thought _Graham_ was oblivious. 

Maybe he hasn't completely lost his touch, though, because when he gets up to leave, Jon follows. 

*

The flat isn't much. It isn't even his, technically speaking, but the owner died two months ago and didn't have any family to notice the absence, so for now nobody's around to notice he's borrowing it. Perks of the job. It's a little one-bedroom affair, with fading blackout curtains and empty shelves and the faint lingering smell of old weed, but it's good enough to dream in and the electricity's stayed on so far without him paying it. He's been trying not to think too hard about why that might be. 

“Drink?” he asks, as Jon toes off his shoes at the door and then just stands there, almost visibly vibrating with nervous energy. 

“I—alright,” Jon says. 

“This one showed up in front of my door after I went to wake you up,” Oliver says, pulling out the one bottle of wine he has in the cupboard. He was starting to get the hang of faking his way through wine conversations while out to dinner with coworkers at Barclay's, but it's been a long time. All he knows about this one is that it's probably nice, and it's got a spiderweb on the label, which is... pointed. “Guess it was a thank you.”

“From...”

“The spiders, far as I can tell.” Oliver shrugs. He pops it open and hands the bottle over and Jon takes it, staring down at the label with a little furrow to his brow. “Don't think it bites. Can get you a cup if you like. I don't really bother anymore.” 

“No,” Jon says. “No, that's alright.” He takes a deep breath, visibly gives Oliver a once-over, and then tips the bottle back and takes a deep swig. “Is that lesson one of not being human anymore, by the way?” he continues, a bit of a joking lilt to his voice completely failing to mask everything underneath it. “Skip dishes, you only need to—to drink trauma anyway?” 

Christ, Oliver brought himself home a mess. Jon's about ready to start either laughing or crying, or maybe both at the same time. Oliver takes the bottle back from him and takes three long swallows. It doesn't work on him quite as well as it used to, before, but this is not a conversation to be had totally sober, so. 

“It gets easier if you lean into it.”

“How are you so _calm_?” Oliver barely has time to register the buzz of static in the words before his mouth is opening. 

“I spent six months walking along the ocean floor to get back from Port Nemo. Never been much of a swimmer. So I just—walked the whole way until I found a boat that would take me to land. Couldn't die, but it was dark down there. Dark and cold as the grave, and I would know. Had a lot of time to get my thoughts in order. You know all the bullshit you have in your head about what people are supposed to be like? What's normal, what's human, the things you feel because it's what you're supposed to feel? I gave up on all that. I'm not going around murdering people, or anything, it's not like that. But being down there clarified a lot of things, and I left a lot of things behind.

… That really does feel strange.”

“Sorry,” Jon says, wringing his hands. “I... didn't remember to control it.”

“Right.” Oliver sets the bottle down. Enough counseling. “Let's... find a better use for your mouth, then.” It doesn't come out quite as smooth as he'd have hoped, but Jon doesn't laugh or anything. He backs Jon up against the corner and looms down over him, pinning his hands against the wood, and Jon closes his eyes and tilts his face up, going limp in surrender. Perfect. His body is hot all along Oliver's, and when Oliver leans down to fit their lips together, he makes a faint noise and opens his mouth, hands cupped around the back of Oliver's neck to keep him close. 

They kiss for a long moment, the soft, wet noises the only sound in the still of the flat, Jon's whole body curving into Oliver's like he's desperate for contact, and when Oliver pulls back for a moment he outright whines. 

“I don't—I don't usually do this,” Jon says, looking up at him. “But I'm just a bit--” He struggles for the right word for a moment. “It's been so long since anyone has touched me, and I'm curious about what it'll be like.”

“You don't have to explain yourself to me.”

“It's just that people get impressions, and then it's complicated later, and--” 

Oliver sighs. “... _Please_ tell me this isn't a 'first gay experiment' situation. I will walk back into the ocean.” He is too old and too dead for this shit. 

“No!” Jon yelps. “I'm just. I'm ace, is all. But I do want to, ah. Try.” 

“Oh.” Oliver shrugs and leans back in to kiss him again. That he can work with. “So you don't want me to fuck you, then?” 

Jon goes very, very red. “I want to try,” he repeats, and when Oliver slides both hands under his shirt, he leans into the touch. 

*

“Still good?” Oliver asks, and Jon curses and moans, gripping the sheets tighter. He pushes his hips back against Oliver's fingers. Oliver curls them, loving the slick sounds as he fucks them in and out of Jon's hole, the reddened skin around where Oliver's other hand digs in to hold onto his hip and guide him, the way Jon's coherence has slipped away to little breathy curses and pleas for more. It's not quite enough to get Jon off, and every time Jon tries to fuck himself harder on Oliver's fingers, speed up, Oliver grips his hip tight and holds him in place. Jon is so small compared to him. He can do it so easily. 

“Please,” Jon says again, and Oliver pulls his fingers out, teasing the head of his cock against Jon's hole instead, rubbing back and forth, threatening at penetration without pressing in. There's just something about Jon that makes him want to be a little mean. His voice is his weapon, and he makes such lovely sounds. He trembles all over when Oliver rubs at him again. 

When he looks back at Oliver, there are faint tears beading at the corners of his eyes, and it's that that makes Oliver finally take pity and press in, one hand between Jon's shoulder blades to press him into the mattress as he sinks the length of his cock inside that tight, clutching heat, hissing out a breath as he does. Jon feels so good inside. He squirms, trying to adjust to being filled all at once, and he presses his face into the pillow to muffle the loud cry he makes when Oliver's hips press flush against him. 

“Good?” Oliver asks, and gets a muffled, wrecked _mhmm_ instead of a real word. 

Oliver can't help but watch as he pulls out a little only to sink deep again, watching the way Jon's body welcomes him like he was made for this. He's loud, when Oliver starts to fuck him for real, trying to keep his pace slow and steady but giving in to the heat and pressure, the twisting pleasure that sparks all through his belly as he moves. It overwhelms him all at once, and he grips Jon's hips in both hands hard enough to bruise as he presses in as deep as he can and comes inside Jon, filling him up as his hips twitch and Jon whimpers and shudders around him, hand moving down to stroke himself off hard and fast, clenching around Oliver's cock like he needs the pressure to get himself there. He bites the pillow as he comes, his whole body tensing and then relaxing all at once like a spring uncoiling.

“Needed that,” Oliver teases, smoothing a hand down the sweaty line of his back to tease at where they're still joined. 

“Yeah,” Jon breathes out in a huff. “I did.” 

*

Jon sprawls out on the sheets after, and Oliver sits propped up and watches him, the way his chest rises and falls, the tension smoothed out of the lines of his body. There's a hot, proprietary rush at the thought that his come is leaking out of Jon. Maybe he'll make use of that thought later, if Jon's up for it. 

“Feeling any better?” Oliver asks, after a while.

“Mm,” Jon agrees, looking up and down Oliver's naked form curiously. He has never felt quite so _studied_ after sex, but that's to be expected. “I keep thinking about what I would leave behind. Will leave behind.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“Maybe this is a strange thing to think about, but--”

“No such thing. That's half the point, you know? We set our own rules.” 

“Something—like us once told me it wasn't a who, it was a _what_. Is it strange to think that feels easier? To just leave the whole thing behind?”

Oliver's never thought of himself as a _what_ in that direct of a way, but in the depths of his breakdown, the idea of running away from it all so thoroughly he was no longer a person was a terribly appealing thought that crossed his mind more than once. So. Maybe not quite the same, but. 

“I get it, I think. Do you want to be, uh. An it, then?”

“I think so? Sort of?” Jon's face twists. “I couldn't ask someone to call me that though.”

“I'll do it,” Oliver says. 

“Thank you,” Jon says, and he rolls over onto his side to kiss Oliver.

*

“The Great Eye that watches all who linger in terror and gorges itself on the sufferings of those under its unrelenting, stuporous gaze,” Jon intones into the recorder, looking out at the mass of tendrils that surround this piece of the world. “And its Archive, which draws knowledge of this suffering unto itself.”

Oliver watches as a small smile curls across Jon's lips. _Hello again_ , he thinks.


End file.
